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Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1887 - Всего страниц: 112

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Стр. 63 - Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend.
Стр. 111 - THOUGHT. j|HAT if some morning, when the stars were paling, And the dawn whitened, and the East was clear, Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence Of a benignant Spirit standing near : And I should tell him, as he stood beside me, " This is our Earth — most friendly Earth, and fair ; Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air...
Стр. 33 - Has Time grown sleepy at his post, And let the exiled Summer back, Or is it her regretful ghost, Or witchcraft of the almanac ? While wandering breaths of mignonette In at the open window come, I send my thoughts afar, and let Them paint your Christmas Day at home.
Стр. 63 - T is not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'T is by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away.
Стр. 16 - World, wise old world, What may man do for thee ? Thou that art greater than all of us, What wilt thou do to me ? This glossy curve of the tall grass-spear — Can I make its lustrous green more clear ? This tapering shaft of oat, that knows To grow erect as the great pine grows, And to sway in the wind as well as he — Can I teach it to nod more graciously ? The lark on the mossy rail so nigh...
Стр. 62 - The royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!" The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; , They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! 'No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool: The...
Стр. 20 - Life is a game the soul can play With fewer pieces than men say. Only to grow as the grass grows, Prating not of joys or woes ; To burn as the steady hearth-fire burns ; To shine as the star can shine, Or only as the mote of dust that turns Darkling and twinkling in the beam of light divine...
Стр. 70 - I am a lost illusion. Some strange spell Once made your friend there, with his fine disdain Of fact, conceive me perfect. He would fain (But could not) see me always, as befell His dream to see me, plucking asphodel, In saffron robes, on some celestial plain. All that I was he marred and flung away In quest of what I was not, could not be, — Lilith, or Helen, or Antigone.
Стр. 61 - T is not in endless striving, Thy quest is found : Be still and listen ; Be still and drink the quiet Of all around. Not for thy crying, Not for thy loud beseeching, Will peace draw near : Rest with palms folded ; Rest with thine eyelids fallen — Lo ! peace is here.
Стр. 44 - A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel — That blue blade that the king's son bears, — but this Blunt thing — !" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.

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